Margaret Moore - [Maiden & Her Knight 03] (29 page)

Denis sat down again with a thump. “When was this?”

“The night of the storm.”

“And she chose
that
night—?”

“She might have succeeded, except for the rope.”

Denis waggled his finger at his friend. “Which is
another
strange thing. Where on earth did she get a rope? One of us was watching her all the time! Is she a witch, that she conjured one out of thin air?”

“She made it from rags and her sheet, I think.”

Denis stared as if he’d been stabbed. “Out of cloth?”

“Yes.”

“I had no idea noblewomen were so clever, even that one.”

“Neither did I,” Alexander admitted. “But now you see that it can be done. We’ll meet you—”

“And Kiera.”

“And Kiera,” Alexander conceded, “on the wall walk and then climb down the outer wall.”

“How? We are not spiders.”

“We’ll have another rope.”

“Where are we to get all this rope?” Denis asked, looking dubiously at Alexander, as if he expected Alexander to suggest he start making one.

“I am going to ask Ingar. He has extra rigging for the sail that he can surely spare, if the price is right.”

Denis’s eyes narrowed. “What excuse are you going to give him for needing rope? He knows you do not have a ship that requires rigging.”

“I’ll tell him the truth.” As his friend stared, Alexander slid down the wall so that he sat with his back against it. “He has to know what we’re doing because he has to take us from here.”

Denis looked sickened by that thought.

“We will not have horses,” Alexander explained, “and attempting to steal them is far riskier than climbing down the walls. The Brabancons will have horses, so we can’t get away on foot.”

Denis rubbed his chin, then his forehead, then his nose as he took in all that Alexander said. “
Oui
, I agree that to go on foot when they are mounted is too dangerous.”

“So it has to be by ship. If Ingar agrees, we should be out to sea before the Brabancons realize we’ve gone. They have no vessels of their own to chase us.”

Frowning, Denis got to his feet. “You are worried about Kiera, but you would use the Norsemen? They are in Oswald’s pay.”

Alexander rose to face him. “I’ll offer Ingar compensation, and we have no other choice. Nor do I think it will take much to convince Ingar. You didn’t hear him when he brought me back from Bellevoire, Denis. He loves being at sea, and staying on land at Oswald’s or Osburn’s beck and call is not how he wants to be spending the summer months. I also think he doesn’t like Lord Oswald any more than I do, even if he will take the man’s money.”

Denis gave him a skeptical look. “So he is bored and hates the man who pays him. That does not mean he will sail off with us in his ship.” Sudden understanding lit his face. “Ah! You will give him part of the ransom!”

Alexander shook his head. “I won’t have it. I dare not risk going anywhere near Bellevoire on my own if I have the lady with me. I’ll set her free when we are close enough for her to make her own way safely to Bellevoire. It’s that, or be captured.”

Denis’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. “Then how will you pay Ingar? We don’t have many coins.”

“I’m going to offer to join his crew and give him a portion of whatever I earn.”

“You would do that? You would stay with that brigand and be one yourself?”

Alexander didn’t meet his friend’s astonished gaze. He didn’t want Denis to see how deeply ashamed he was. “Why not? I have made myself an outlaw. I must live somehow.”

His friend took him by the arms and spoke fervently. “The Norsemen are
savages
, Alexander. There must be something else you can do, another way to live. You could be a hired soldier for a lord in Europe. You are so skilled, they will not ask many questions.”

Alexander raised his hard eyes. “So I would be a mercenary—killing for money like the Brabancons. If I must be a sword for hire, I will offer myself to Ingar and at least get us away from here.”

“And what of me? Will you abandon me?”

“You can make a living as you did before. Nobody saw your face at Bellevoire. You did not take the ransom demand. I did the greater harm. You can be free, as you were before.”

“To join up with ruffians and dishonest oafs who cheat me out of the day’s takings.”

Alexander’s heart tore a little more as he regarded his friend. “Denis, please. Do not put your fate in my hands after we escape. I’m not worthy of the charge, as all of this has proven.”

“You are my friend, Alexander.”

“Then as my friend, please, do as I ask. I feel guilty enough for what I’ve already done.”

Denis’s eyes softened with both sympathy and understanding as he let go. “Very well. But if it must be so, will you not be honest with me?”

The words cut Alexander to the quick. “I have always been honest with you, Denis.”

“Will you still try to deny that you care for this woman, Alexander? Will you tell me you do not love her?”

Unable to speak of the deepest, most secret matters of the heart even to Denis and even now, Alexander turned away and went to the door. “Ask Kiera to come with us if you must. I am going to speak to Ingar.”

Alexander strode out of the tower. The Brabancons had collected into little groups in the courtyard, like gossiping women at a fair. As he walked past one such gaggle, one of them whispered something and the others started to snicker. It was not surprising they thought him a fool for taking the wrong woman. He was, and for more than that.

Nevertheless, he gave them a sharp, dismissive glance that momentarily silenced them.

When he reached the postern gate, the same two guards were on duty there. This time, they wisely made no move to stop him, or even issue a challenge. He trotted down the steps carved in the bluff.

Denis was right that making this request of Ingar was risky, but it was their best and only chance to successfully escape from this place, and to get the lady swiftly home, back to her sister and brother-in-law—not her loving husband.

Had she ever loved any man? Was there a man she wanted to be betrothed to? What would he be like?

Not like you
.

He forced his thoughts back to Ingar. If the man did not agree, he didn’t know what he would do.

Yes, he did. He’d kill Osburn. He’d be killed in turn, of course, but he would accept that fate as just punishment for his hand in this business, and for not making more certain of the men with whom he allied himself.

Surely, though, Ingar would agree. He must.

Alexander spotted Hielda crossing the beach toward the steps. The sly and proud way she smiled and swayed her hips when she saw him told him that she had not been in the Norse camp to exchange pleasantries, and she had no basket as if she had taken them any supplies. It was easy enough to guess what she had been doing there, and he suspected that she was now several coins richer.

As Hielda started up the steps toward him, he tried to remember if she had been part of that gawking group in the hall when Isabelle had made her appearance before Lord Oswald. He couldn’t remember. He had been too shocked by what had come after to recall exactly who had been present.

If she had been, she would surely have told the Norsemen the news of the lady’s real name and the proposed marriage. No doubt Ingar would think him a fool, too, but as long as Ingar thought him a fool with skills that made him worthy enough to be part of his crew, he would endure the jibes and mocking looks.

He paused and pressed back against the bluff to let Hielda pass by.

“’Scuse me,” she said as she rubbed against him far more than necessary. “Bit narrow here, ain’t it?”

He could hear the chink of coins from somewhere between her heavy breasts, where she probably kept her purse when she was not earning more.

“I think you’ve done enough of that today,” he said, trying to keep his annoyance and disgust at bay. “You could wear yourself out.”

With a low, throaty chuckle, she said, “Worse ways to do it. You should find out.”

Denis was going to tell Kiera; he was going to tell Ingar. Both of them might alert Oswald to the plan to escape, so it might be wise to suggest he had no such ideas in case it came down to one person’s word against another’s.

Barely able to keep his nostril from curling at her stench, he hauled her closer still. “Maybe I will.”

Her eyes gleamed like a ferret’s. “Now?”

Smiling with false intent, he shook his head. “I have business at the Norse camp.”

“Tonight?”

He chucked her under the chin. “At night, I guard the lady. Come to the Gascon’s quarters after you finish serving Lord Oswald and the others in the morning. I’ll be waiting.”

She gave him the most lascivious smile he had ever seen, and then grabbed him in a way that made him jump. “Why not now? What’s so important you can’t take a little time?”

He fought the urge to shove her away. “I want more than a quick tumble in the sheets.”

Her brown eyes sparkled with greed, and she raised her face as if she was going to kiss him.

“How much do you want?” he asked before she could.

The talk of money grabbed her attention. Thank God.

She slid him a calculating glance. She would know the amount of the ransom soon to be paid and was surely figuring her worth based on that. “I’m good.”

“I trust you will be.”

“I’ll be worth it.”

“I expect so.”

They negotiated the final amount for her services, and once her price was settled to her satisfaction—and he was quite sure she considered herself a clever negotiator—she seemed content enough to wait until the next day and went on her way.

He wanted to brush off his clothes and wash his hands as he continued down the steps and across the beach toward the cluster of tents with their dragon poles. Instead, he looked up at the sky, checking the weather and breathing in great gulps of fresh air, a blessed relief after Hielda’s proximity. The sky was clear except for some high, thin white clouds. The water in the bay was fairly calm, but he could see foam on the sea beyond, where the wind was greater. It was not the stormy weather Ingar apparently preferred, but it looked promising for a speedy journey.

Recognizing Alexander, none of the Norsemen issued any challenges as he strode into their camp past a large pile of driftwood. The whole camp reeked of smoke from damp wood, salted fish, seaweed and the wet canvas of their tents slowly drying in the sun.

Obviously gambling, several of Ingar’s crew crouched in a circle, the sound of the wooden dice in the leather cup unmistakable. A few more were practicing throwing their battle-axes at a stump set up as a target, and they were very accurate. Another man was fixing the strap on his shield, and three more stood near a pot, arguing about whatever was in it. One man sat on a log while another sat behind him, calmly picking the nits out of his friend’s hair.

It was a cozy domestic scene—for Norsemen. Such was going to be his home for the rest of his days, if Ingar agreed to his bargain.

He didn’t see Ingar anywhere in the camp or on his ship. That confused him, for he had expected Ingar to be bellowing orders or drinking ale and singing some ancient saga about valiant deeds that sent men to Valhalla to feast with the gods. Then he remembered Hielda.

He headed for what had to be Ingar’s tent, for it was easily the biggest one in the encampment, and the poles outside were the most ornately carved and colorfully painted. “Ingar!” he called as he waited outside.

“What?” the Norseman’s groggy voice called back. “Can’t a man get some sleep?”

“It is Alexander DeFrouchette, and I have come to speak to you of an important matter.”

The tent flap parted, and a half naked Ingar peered out at him. To Alexander’s surprise, a large gold crucifix dangled from a wonderfully worked chain around his neck. “Well then, enter.”

Alexander stooped to go through the opening. He couldn’t straighten inside. Neither could Ingar, who promptly flopped down on the wooden bed covered with what looked like a black bear’s pelt. Like everything else in the camp, the furnishings in the tent had obviously been made to be taken apart and stowed on the ship, then put together when needed. A bronze lamp, not lit, hung from the ridgepole by a chain and was filled with what smelled like sheep’s tallow. Ingar gestured at a three-legged stool, and Alexander sat.

The Norseman wore only his brown woolen breeches, and his chest bore several scars. His boots were near the wooden bed, and so was his sword, a damascened blade, made of different qualities of iron and steel that were wound around each other, then welded together and hammered flat. The technique made for a strong, supple blade, and an expensive one. That weapon alone would have cost more than most men made in a lifetime of trade or farming.

But that was not the only weapon the Norseman possessed. Lying across an iron-embossed wooden chest was a battle-ax whose head was delicately carved with swirling, curving lines—a lovely thing it was, for a weapon of destruction.

The rumpled linen beneath the pelt and the general state of the feather bed told Alexander that Ingar had not been napping. Ingar saw his speculative gaze and laughed as he fingered the crucifix. “A man gets lonely.”